


history has a nasty way of repeating itself (fools know no better)

by verbjectives



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Everyone's having a rough time, Gen, Guilt, Light Masochism, M/M, POV Second Person, Regret, Violence, except for Grisha who usurped the throne and is probably having a grand old time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 16:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbjectives/pseuds/verbjectives
Summary: Afflicted by a madness, Valko, the champion of Pelor, makes a decision that affects so much more than just himself. Now he has one last chance to bear the consequences.





	history has a nasty way of repeating itself (fools know no better)

**Author's Note:**

> The version of valko in part I is afflicted with a madness that made him exceedingly arrogant and selfish but he’s “cured” of that madness by part II. The "one last chance" refers to the fact that Valko has, up until this point, died three times already, and each time he was brought back by Pelor, but after what Valko's done, there's only so much Pelor can do.

**_i._ **

You feel untouchable. Unbreakable. Undefeatable. A power and confidence that you’ve never known courses through your veins along with a fire that burns with hatred and rage and something so primal it makes you wish to tear the still-beating heart from someone’s chest and eat it raw.

The part of you that’s still you knows that this must be how Grisha feels all the time. Except his is a cold wrath, the kind that creeps into your bones. All it takes is one little push to make you shatter. The two of you always were like fire and ice. You never did manage to grasp the kind of collected iciness he had, but you had a way that worked just as well for you. A way of burning so hot you felt cold.

A spark. A blinding white flame. Gone.

It never lasted long, but it consumed and destroyed fast enough to leave permanent damage to anything you touched.

You make a deal with him as if there’s no bad blood between the two of you, as if you never got him killed. Just two people with something the other wants. A regular business  transaction. The king’s bastard in exchange for freedom from Thanos. Surely he’s reasonable enough to respect the value of the trade. After all, he is getting the better end of the deal.

And to think you have the gall to feel betrayed when he doesn’t uphold his end of the trade and turns you over to the dao instead.

**_ii._ **

_“This wasn’t supposed to happen so soon.”_ Pelor tells you while you watch from the heavens as Grisha leads an army up the stairs to the castle with Eryk in tow. The city is burning. People are screaming, crying, dying. This was bound to happen eventually; you knew he was beginning to make his move when you discovered the ticketmaster to the Royal district had been killed.

The words Pelor uses makes it sound like this was always meant to happen. That Grisha was always meant to seize power. That Winslow was meant to fall. But to hear that this all came too soon implies something much larger and something much more frightening.

It makes your stomach drop, realizing you helped Grisha change the course of history in just one night. Oh, how that thought would have thrilled you a few years ago, but all it does now is drag choked sobs from your throat. He’s so much more powerful than you ever realized and you feel so small, so stupid, so weak in comparison. It doesn’t truly surprise you that he’s managed to turn the tides of destiny in such a way. If anyone were capable of such an act of hubris, it’d be him. He always liked to do the impossible. You never fully comprehended just how good at it he was.

And watching him drag Eryk along by chains as if he’s some sort of pet on display, you’re agonizingly aware of exactly what it is  you’ve done.

You have to fix this. You have to do something. Anything. You’re not naive enough to believe that you can ever make things right, nor do you expect the people you called “friend” to ever forgive you. But maybe, just maybe, you might be able to make things better. You can’t keep selfishly wallowing in self pity. It’s time to take responsibility for your damn actions.

You have one last chance to make things right.

**_iii._ **

You accept every punch Faylen throws at you. She has every right to be angry, every right to kill you. You’ll be lucky if she ever says your name again.

Blood gushes from the wounds left behind by the iron thorns of her tattoo, and every time she sends it out with another punch, the roses are painted a deeper red. You welcome the pain gladly. The familiar metallic tang on your tongue and pleasant burn of blood oozing from punctured skin are a peculiar comfort you didn’t know you missed. She fulfills  the mantra you lived by for years. _You deserve to bleed. You deserve to be hurt. You deserve to suffer. This is repentance. This is atonement. You don’t deserve anything more._

The thing about pain though, is that pain is easy. As long as you don’t lose too much blood, a wound will heal, scar, fade. Pain is only a temporary distraction sought by the fool who is too afraid to face the truth. But you know better now, don’t you. You know you have to shoulder the weight of knowing that you doomed the lives of an entire city, if not the entire country with a decision born from arrogance.

The true punishment isn’t the pain others inflict on you or that you inflict on yourself. The true punishment is having to live with what you did and bearing the consequences.

**_iv._ **

You try to tell them they’re not ready for this but they don’t listen. You don’t particularly blame them, you wouldn’t trust yourself either if you were in their place, and even you have to admit the thought of leaving Eryk behind to suffer makes your stomach churn. But you saw the army, you know you don’t stand a chance against it, and you know Grisha well enough to know  that he’ll keep Eryk alive, at least for a while.

Fleeing to Ships Haven and chartering a ship elsewhere feels an awful lot like running away, but you need to gather your strength.. Perhaps find a few allies if you’re lucky. There’s no way you can defeat Grisha just yet. No way you, Faylen, and Ovak will be able to do it by yourselves. This isn’t what you’re used to. This isn’t just a battle you can win. This is a war. And you can’t fight a war on your own.

But Ovak and Faylen are determined to go in and you can’t just let them do it alone. So you follow them in against Pelor’s will and your better judgement. Abandoning and betraying them is what got you into this mess, you can’t let yourself do it again.

Odds are you’re going to die, but at least you’re going to die fighting for something good.

**_v._ **

You’re on your knees before him as he sits on a throne of black thorns and roses, a radiant darkness surrounding him and you can’t help but be a little in awe. A whisper,  sounding too much like your own voice and louder than you’d like, hums contentedly in the back of your head. _“Good,”_ it murmurs, _“this is the way it was always meant to be.”_

He steals your magic away and your breath goes right along with it. Burning pain rips through your body and your radiance pours from your hand into his own. You think about trying to yank him forward, to try to kiss him through the mask. You want to try to surprise him for once in your life and also because you’re curious to see what would happen. You wonder if he’d taste like magic and death. You wonder if he’d kill you right then and there.  But before you have the chance to act, he lets go of your hand, leaving you cold, empty, and worst of all, longing for his touch again.

**_vi._ **

This time you die the way you should have all those years ago. Helpless. Bleeding out on cobbled stone. A traitor to your friends. You die the way Grisha did that fateful night. The only difference is that there’s no one to hold you in their arms, no one to mourn your passing. The only warmth you find before slipping into darkness is the slick blood pooling beneath you.

It isn’t satisfying. It’s selfish of you to think it would be. You’re not special. You never were. Just a man masquerading as something you're not, trying to fool the world into thinking you're better than you actually are. Just how different are you from who you were back then? Did you ever think you could actually change? All you are is the same selfish coward. A snake can change its skin as many times as it wants, but it’s always just a snake.

But you managed the save the king, or at least you hope you did. You managed to save someone worthy of Pelor’s blessings -- someone who actually stands a chance at saving the world. And if that’s the only good to come out of your pathetic excuse for a life, well then at least you were useful for something.

You can’t bring yourself to wish for another chance. Why bother? You’ve been given so many and all you ever do is squander them. Why would “next time” be any different. You failed. There’s not much more to it than that.

Perhaps you weren’t born for greatness. Perhaps you weren’t born for something more.

Perhaps you were born to be used. Perhaps you were born to die.

Why the fuck did it take you this long?


End file.
